Edible Tulip

Repost: Rummaging for Ramps

The following was first published in April 2004. It's a repost on Ramps, or Wild Leeks. I wonder if they are still edible. It's getting late in the season. I didn't get around to foraging wild leeks this year, despite the ubiquity of their presence all over the brown mulch covered hillsides on the Mingay Tract in Creemore. I wonder about them, from my 3rd floor desk overlooking Fran's Diner, staring face first into varying tiers of beige brick, as they shoot, prosper, flail, wither in 6 short weeks. I did try to dig one out of the ground one afternoon to see the size of its bulb but if you don't have a good digging tool on you, and I didn't, then you have to scratch through enough dirt for a hen to be happy, and you'll still result in breaking the stem from the bulb and a week's worth of dirty fingernails. The roots are stubborn.

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As soon as I get up north I'm heading out to the dense woods and getting down on all fours with a trowel and a plastic bag. The leeks are generally in full thrush by mid-May in Ontario. By mid-June they're usually getting tough and woody and rather dried out.

A sure sign of spring’s arrival in Ontario is the large clumps of malodorous green leaves in our wooded areas. These are the edible herbaceous spring ephemeral known as wild leeks or ramps (Allium triococcum, Ait.). Allium is the ancient name for garlic from Latin and the bulb of the wild leek, although flavoured like an onion, has a distinctly garlicky zing when cooked.

In late April look for leaves that coil to form colonies that push through the latent ground cover of mulch. The leaves eventually expand and resemble lily-of-the-valley clusters. They appear in patches and thrive in damp soil. You will need a small spade to loosen the earth around the base of the plant so you do not destroy the tender bulb. The bulb is encased in a thin netting which can easily be removed by rubbing your fingers together with the bulb between them or by pulling off the sheathe while running the bulb under cool water. Use both the leaves and the bulb in any recipe that calls for leeks, cooking onions, green onions or garlic.

Long before farmers and harvesters referred to the practice of responsible food production as sustainable agriculture, early settlers already understood the simplicity of re-growth. They used to replant the roots that extend from the base of the bulb so the ramps would continue to grow and flower. The wild leek plant flowers in late summer when the edible bulb has grown too mature and bitter to use. Cherokees and other tribes pickled the wild leeks to extend the life of the bulb and considered them a delicacy. Wild leeks have also been a large part of the regional cuisine of Southern Appalachia. Entire towns get together to celebrate spring by hosting Ramp Festivals known as “Dancin’ and Stinkin’ ” (due to the pungent aroma the wild leeks give off when eaten raw). And finally, on a medicinal note, an ancient folklore remedy suggests rubbing the juice of a crushed bulb on an insect sting to reduce redness and swelling. A timely remedy matched to the arrival of our Ontario honeybees.

Risotto with Ramps

6 leek bulbs, white part only, cleaned and sliced thin
1 Tbsp. olive oil
1 cup Arborio rice (Italian rice)
3 cups vegetable broth
½ cup dry white wine
½ cup radicchio, sliced thin (if available)
½ cup fresh Parmesan, grated
3 Tbsp. Italian parsley, chopped
1 Tbsp. fresh squeezed lemon juice
Salt & pepper

Cook the leeks in the oil in a large saucepan until tender. Add the uncooked rice. Stir over medium heat for 5 minutes. Meanwhile, bring the broth to a boil in a medium saucepan, reduce and simmer.

Add 1-cup broth to the rice, stirring constantly until it is absorbed. Add the wine and let absorb. Continue adding ½ cups of broth until the rice is slightly creamy and just tender. Just before serving, add the radicchio, the lemon juice, the Parmesan and top with the chopped parsley. Season with salt and pepper.

Serves 4 – 6.

Garlic Buds and Five Salad Dressing Recipes

I'm nearing D-Day, otherwise known as Moving Day, which also, because, nothing in life is free, just happens to be the one day of heavy rains they are forecasting in, oh, the next 21 days. So I thought I'd write a quick piece between pulling my hair out, screaming at the mewling cats, shaking my fists at the wet shaking dog flinging mud on the walls, packing another book, or wrapping another piece of packing paper around some useless glass ware (for those of us who live alone and typically use 1 wine glass and 1 drinking glass and 1 coffee mug why oh why do we insist on having cupboards full of unused drinking vessels), to write about garlic because historically it has long been credited with not only providing but PROLONGING physical strength and it was often fed to Egyptian slaves as they laboured endlessly building the giant pyramids. So if garlic gave courage and might and a touch of sanity to the Egyptians in the face of the impossible, then maybe it will prolong my short bursts of patience just until I can throw all my shoes in a box. (It also appears that in planning a special romantic dinner, aphrodisiacs like oysters and strawberries and fondue and what not are fine for setting a mood, but maybe it's lots of garlic that will end up turning the night into something to remember).

Last year at the Collingwood Farmer's Market, early in the season, there was a man who only sold garlic buds. I use garlic cloves extensively and I have cooked with garlic scapes before as well but these little purple nubs were new to me. The gentleman told me to just break them off with your hand, and use them raw, or cooked, exactly like you would garlic. The papery small wispy things in the picture are not of much use, but the pomegranate coloured buds you see below are where it's at. In cooking, I simply took a bulb and rubbed it between my fingers over the heating olive oil in a pan and they popped off really easily. Their flavour is intense but in a young garlic aromatic way, not in a heady, old, too bitter and tongue marinating sort of way. Ask around next time you visit a market. They have a very short season before they grow up and get all overpowering in their true bulb form. Isn't that always the way.

Here are a few salad dressings that you could crumble a few garlic buds into for bite. I don't think I need to give directions. Just mix the ingredients together, adding the fresh herbs to the salad when tossing with the dressing, and season with sea salt or coarse salt and fresh cracked pepper. Also, feel free to substitute light versions of sour cream and mayo in any of the recipes.

Buttermilk Dressing with Horseradish - good on coleslaw

1/2 cup buttermilk
1/2 cup sour cream
1 tbsp horseradish
1/2 tsp wasabi
2 garlic cloves, minced, or mashed with seasalt OR 4-5 garlic buds
1/4 cup finely chopped parsley
Lemon juice to taste

Green Goddess Dressing

1/2 cup mayo
1/2 cup sour cream
1 Tbsp tarragon
1/2 cup parsley
3 tbsp chopped chives
1 clove garlic, minced, or mashed in seasalt, OR 4-5 garlic buds

Peanut Chile Dressing

1/4 cup roasted peanut oil
2 1/2 tbsp rice vinegar
1 tbsp low sodium soy sauce/tamari
3 garlic cloves, chopped, or 6 garlic buds
1/2 serrano chile, chopped
2 tbsp scallions, chopped

Fresh mint
Fresh cilantro or basil

This dressing is best served warm. Heat the peanut oil, add the garlic, and cook over medium-low until the garlic starts to sizzle, turn down the heat to low, add the rice vinegar, the soy sauce, the chile and the scallions, and simmer until the sauce begins to slightly thicken. Pour over chopped napa cabbage with spears of cooked asparagus, add the chopped fresh herbs, and finish with chopped peanuts or cashews or toasted sesame seeds.

Parmesan-Balsamic Dressing - good on hardy romaine

1 garlic clove, mashed with coarse sea salt, or 3-4 garlic buds
2 tbsp balsamic vinegar
1 tsp lemon juice
1/4 cup finely grated parmesan cheese
1/2 cup olive oil
Fresh basil, chopped/torn into small pieces

Curry Vinaigrette - good on warm lentils or a grain salad

1 garlic clove, mashed with salt, or 3-4 garlic buds
2 tbsp whole fat yogurt or low fat mayo
2 tsp curry powder (best with fresh curry powder from a spice store or indian bazaar)
1 1/2 tbsp lemon juice
5 tbsp sunflower oil
2 tbsp fresh cilantro/mint/parsley, chopped

I make this in a mason jar or a small jam jar and shake until all the ingredient are absorbed and the dairy has been fully broken down. I then toss on the legumes or grains and add the fresh herbs.

The Great Pumpkin

The Great Pumpkin

Nothing brings forth fall like passing a field of cascading orange wanderers sculptured into all shapes and sizes. Hit the backcountry and you’ll pass wagons stacked high with the pumpkin bounty. Children angle each one hoping to find the perfect Jack-O-Lantern to sit on the family porch.

Pumpkins, and squash for that matter, are descendents of the Cucurbita genus and are exclusively American in origin. (Columbus introduced them into the Old World roughly 50 years after his first voyage.) They evolved from the small gourds of South America that were known for a terribly bitter flesh but delicious protein-rich edible seeds. It was due to the versatility of the seeds that the North American Indians eventually sought to cultivate them throughout North America. The original species (from which these later-date pumpkins originated) dates back to 8,000 BC where archaeologists detected evidence of pumpkin seeds in ancient burial caves in Mexico.

The Pilgrim Fathers who landed in Massachusetts in 1620 were tragically ill prepared for a life of farming and sustainable crops and roughly half their crew perished that very first winter. Many more would have succumbed had it not been for the Patuxet Indians who through a lot of gesturing and grunting taught the Fathers how to grow and sow pumpkins using herring for fertilizer. It was at the first Thanksgiving celebration meal that the pumpkin was served as a boiled vegetable. The origin of pumpkin pie comes from the original way of serving pumpkin as a dessert by slicing off the pumpkin top (where the knotty stem puckers into the flesh), removing the seeds, and filling the cavity with milk, spices (cinnamon, cardamom, nutmeg) and honey. The pumpkin was then baked in the hot ashes of a dying fire.

From a linguistic approach, the original name pumpkin originated from the Greek word for “large melon” which is “pepon”. “Pepon” was eventually changed by the French into “pompon” and the English then altered the word into “ pumpion” until the American colonists, always wanting to have the last word, changed it into “pumpkin”.

As backyards sprout ghouls and ghosts made of sheets that flap in the October wind, Halloween candy fills the grocery store. The origin of Halloween dates back at least 3,000 years ago to the Celtic celebration of Samhain. To commemorate the evening, druids built huge sacred bonfires. The Celts wore elaborate costumes, usually masks of animal heads and pelts, and attempted to tell each other’s fortunes. When in the 800s, Christianity had spread into the Celtic lands Pope Boniface IV designated November 1 All Saint’s Day a day to celebrate saints and martyrs and people rejoiced in a similar way to Samhain with parades and bonfires and costumes of devils and angels and animals. Jack-o-lanterns were lit to welcome deceased loved ones back into the world and to act as a barrier to evil spirits. Trick or treat!

Pumpkin Tea Bread

2 2/3 cup all purpose flour
½ tsp baking soda
1 tsp cinnamon
½ tsp all spice
½ tsp nutmeg
½ cup butter
2/3 cup sugar
2 Tbsp golden syrup or light corn syrup
1 cup pumpkin puree
1 cup milk (or buttermilk)

Preheat oven to 375 degrees F. Grease 9 x 5 inch pan.

Combine dry ingredients. Cut in butter until the mixture resembles cornmeal. (can be done in a food processor). Stir in sugar.

In another bowl, whisk together syrup, pumpkin, milk and add to the flour mixture. Turn into pan and bake from 50 minutes to 1 hour or until a cake tester comes out clean.

Let cool 30 minutes and serve with homemade cherry compote or vanilla ice cream.

Strawberry Festival

Today is strawberry festival at the Creemore Farmer's Market. And what a day! Everyone in flip flops, capri pants, draw-string linen cargo pants, little strappy sundresses, big straw hats and carrying big baskets bursting with red. And kids faces are all smeared with the gooey sticky redness that is the total sweet delight of a strawberry in season. Glen Huron Fruit Market has quarts for less than $2 and that’s where these lovelies came from.

This article all ‘bout strawberries was published in the Creemore Echo on July 2, 2004.

The History of Honey: smack gob-gooey good

When I lived in a farmhouse for a year in the Ottawa Valley, I realized the might of maple syrup. Because Lanark County was maple country everyone used maple syrup in all the places I used honey: on toast, as a sweetener in tea, sopping up bread, in baking. I came to admire the rich headiness of it although I still think honey and maple syrup are not interchangeable. What I like about both sweeteners is the process one has to go through in order to get the reward: sapping a tree or keeping bees.

A short history of honey

“The honeycomb is made from flowers and the materials for the wax they gather from the resinous gum of trees, while honey is distilled from dew and is deposited chiefly at the raisings of the constellations or when a rainbow is in the sky. As a general rule, there is no honey before the rising of the Pleaides.” -- Aristotle.

While this is writing at its most lyrical it isn’t entirely correct: bee’s wax is secreted from the glands of the bees belly, and honey comes from flower nectar mixed with enzymes in a bees’ stomach.

The honeybee is a ubiquitous creature in medieval writings and mythological tales. The Roman Goddess Mellona was the protector of bees; Apollo’s second temple was built by bees; and the ancient Celtic Goddess Brigid had an orchard that was inhabited by bees. Honey is mentioned in Babylonian cuneiform writings, in the Bible (Israel/Palestine is referred to as ‘the land of milk and honey’ (Exodus 3:8)) and in ancient Greek times, where, mead, an alcoholic drink made with honey, was considered the drink of the gods.

Bees have been collecting nectar and producing honey for 150 million years. There are early cave drawings in Africa and Spain from around 7000 B.C., which show people gathering honey from rock crevices and trees while bees circle the air above them. And although European settlers introduced the honeybees, Apis Mellifera, to New England in 1638, Mexico and Central America had already developed beekeeping. It is one of the oldest known agricultural pursuits; the settlers used it initially as a solution to a lack of sugar in the preparation of food and beverages but found it was also useful to make cement, to preserve fruits, to act as a substitute for furniture varnish, and for medicinal purposes.

One of the most common drinks in India in the first millennium A.D. was a special ceremonial brew made from sugar, ghi, curds, herbs, and honey. This was given to guests, to suitors about to ask a young woman for her hand in marriage, and to women who were five months pregnant. It was also used to moisten the lips of a newly born first son. The name for this drink was madhuparka. The first syllables of madhuparka mean “honey”; the Sanskrit word madhu and the Chinese word myit are related to the mit of the Indo-Europeans (Aryans), the medhu of the Slavs, and the mead of the English.

A general rule in buying honey is the darker the colour the stronger the flavour. There are hundreds of different kinds of honey worldwide and they are mostly named after the source of the flower’s nectar from which they originate. In Ontario one is likely to find alfalfa honey, clover honey, buckwheat honey and thyme honey. Honey also comes in three different forms: comb honey, with the liquid encased in the chewy comb; chunk style honey with bits of the honeycomb free floating in the honey; and liquid honey which has been extracted from the comb. Honey is widely used as a topping for toast and a sweetener for tea but it also adds a lovely subtle depth to marinades perfect for summer barbecuing.

Whoop, here they come!

Anybody who grows it can’t help but follow its rapid progress: peek, hullo! and then wham, upright and strong, unflappable in the wind. Whereas late April’s eruption in the forest of wild leeks marks the end of winter, the poking heads of asparagus in May are the official talismans of spring.

Asparagus isn’t elaborately fussy about its habitat nor does it need a lot of pampering. It can be found growing on the Steppes of Russia, waving along the train tracks of Poland, or hovering on a limestone cliff or a volcanic hillside. I’ve seen it push through weedy and dense patches of grass. Asparagus officinalis is part of the Lily family; it’s a perennial plant whose harvest is a prudent couple of weeks in late May. When left to seed (it’s a four year process before harvesting) the underground rhizomes develop into feathery clusters of 4 – 5 feet by late summer. Eventually small crimson berries form which fall off and reseed in autumn. This is why asparagus patches are a motley crew of think and fat, short and tall, they have been reseeded at varying points in time.

The lustrous lemon - pucker face!

Having never lived in a tropical climate, or one that even had orchards (this is Ontario folks), lemons are a fruit which reminds me of my grandparents who were snowbirds (meaning they wintered in Florida). They had a grounded trailer in a campground near a placed called the Indian River Plantation. I remember the name because it sounded so exotic yet smacked of a sort of colonialism. From here, they sent us, in the frigid airs of pre-Christmas snowstorms, boxes of grapefruits and citrus fruit. I remember how just opening the cardboard with an exacto knife released an aroma of citrus as it misted up into the air.

Although lemons are not something I think of as seasonal (because I use them in everything) I do think of them as spring-ish. I personally like tartness and acidity in my cooking so I tend to use lemons in everything from baking to marinades, sauces to squeezing half of one over a salad (limes I prefer in curried vinaigrettes, Indian dals, or to flavour drinks).

A historical bit of info on lemons I published in the Creemore Echo in April 2004:

The Zest of Spring

The puckering sweetness of lemon baked into a pie, a tart or bread always reminds me of the advent of spring, the month of April and specifically Easter. While I use lemons all year long while cooking (drizzled onto braised winter greens, squeezed onto grilled fish, or whole quarters thrown into roasting dishes) I never bake with it until the first shoots of crocuses appear. I think that first glimmer of hopefulness inspires my palette to return to the fresh acidic flavours of spring. Lemons are a generous fruit lending their peel, pulp and juice as a spark to any dish, savoury or sweet.

The lemon (citrus limon) is thought to have originated in the foothills of the Eastern Himalayas. The Chinese were the first to domesticate citrus in the 3rd century and used an intricate system of ditches and berms for irrigation. From Eastern Asia, the citrus trees moved west with Alexander the Great’s campaigns in Iran and northern India. The citron seeds have also been found at an archaeological site in Cyprus dating from 1,200 B.C. Lemons love the sub-tropics; they do well in climates of warm dry summers and cool wet winters. The Romans were exceptional plant experimentalists and used the lemon tree for its timber, medicinal qualities and for its shady floral form and not so much for flavouring food. When Mohammad died in A.D. 632, Islam swept from Persia through Egypt and into Spain and even parts of Sicily. With this movement, the vineyards were desecrated and grubbed out and citrus trees were planted. Regions with excellent wines (Egypt among them) altered their food and drink and incorporated the musky tanginess of citrus into an evolving cuisine.

Although I love the hint of lemon in a lot of cooking, I especially like the flavour in cakes and tarts. This is an excellent pound cake to serve on a celebratory weekend like Easter. The recipe can be made in either a loaf pan or a pretty bundt pan.

Lemon-Ginger Pound Cake

3 Tbsp finely chopped ginger
¾ cup granulate sugar
1 cup all purpose flour
1 tsp baking powder
¼ tsp ground ginger
¼ tsp salt
¼ cup milk
½ tsp vanilla
½ cup unsalted butter
2 Tbsp grated fresh lemon zest
2 large eggs
3 Tbsp fresh lemon juice

Preheat oven to 350 F. Butter pan and then lightly flour it. Whisk together flour, baking powder, ground ginger and salt. Blend together the ground ginger and ¼ cup sugar until wet. In another bowl whisk the milk and vanilla. Beat the butter, remaining sugar, the zest and the eggs until fluffy. Alternately add the flour and milk mixture to the butter and eggs with an electric mixer or a wooden spoon. Mix the ginger and sugar until just combined and add the lemon juice. Spoon the batter into a pan and bake in the middle of the oven until golden brown. Use a cake tester to make sure the middle has cooked through entirely. Roughly 40 minutes or an hour for a loaf pan. A very pretty glaze consists of ½ cup of confectioners sugar to 2 Tbsp of lemon juice whisked until smooth. Drizzle on top of cake once inverted out of pan.

The Art of the Fig (and it's more than figgy puddin')

Figs are definitely an autumn fruit in the line of quince or pears. It's a short season. They're lovely however in jams. I cook and I eat food raw but I'm not a terribly efficient baker or pickler/canner. I think the difference between all those things is something called PATIENCE which I don't have a large amount of. Luckily, there are so many wonderful people who do enjoy canning and preserving and boiling all those jars. At St Lawrence Market in Toronto there's a nice man on the ground floor who has an amazing array of jams and jellies. Up around the Creemore area I visit the Apple Factory in Glen Huron where Mrs. Giffin (who is VERY well known in these parts) makes mince meat tarts, seasonal pies and although she doesn't personally make the jams and jellies there are still a lot of them on the shelf. Every Saturday after the long w/end in May the Creemore Farmer's Market is on and there you will find yet again some person cleverer than you or I who pickles, jars jams, cheese makes, bee keeps or keeps emus.

Here's a bit of anthropological fig for thought:

“You may deprive me of anything you like except coffee, cigarettes and figs” – Paul Valery, French Poet.

Spoken like a true French poet, caffeine, nicotine and the sweet sublimation of fruit were the companions to his process. One need only try a ripe fig to realize the addictive allure of the subtle contradiction of tiny crunchy seeds held within interior folds of spicy edible flesh.

In theological history, the fig is the first tree to be mentioned in the Bible: “… the eyes of both of them were opened, and they knew that they were naked; and they sewed fig leaves together, and made themselves aprons.” Sacred myth is also attached to the fig in nearly all ancient religions symbolizing abundance and initiation. The Indians consecrated the fig tree to Vishnu, the second god in the Brahman trinity, saviour of the world, and the Ancient Greeks to Dionysus, god of renewal. The fig’s tiny black seeds are meant to signify unity and universality of understanding, knowledge and faith.

The fig is not a particularly beautiful fruit. It does not blush red when in season like the strawberry nor does it have a prickly exterior belying a succulent piquant flesh like the pineapple; rather, it is a simple fruit of texture and flavour veiled in a thick purple skin.

White figs are the juiciest. They are also fairly thin skinned. French figs, which arrive from the south, near Provence, are the sweetest, even more so than their Italian counterparts. The Italians “force” their fruits and end up with a rushed maturation process, which, many would say, blemishes the taste. White figs are dried in the sun, washed with seawater, and then laid to dry in hot air. They arrive in North America from Turkey (the French figs, although marvellous, fresh are too small to withstand the process of drying). The dried fig in the supermarket is measured in freshness and flavour according to a crown system: 7 and 9 crowns are considered the freshest and fleshiest while 5 and 6 crowns are deemed less flavourful.

Calimryna figs are nutty and tender and golden skinned. They are the California version of the Turkish fig. The Mission fig, named for the mission fathers who planted the fruits as they traveled, are a deep purple when fresh and a darkish black colour when dried. The Adriatic fig, on the other hand, is from the Mediterranean region and has the sweetest flavour with a rich interior the colour of amber. These figs are used in the paste for fig bars.

Fresh figs with Yogurt and Honey, serves 2

Adriatic figs are festive and spring-like because they have a pale green exterior and a bright red centre. A few black mission figs can also be a nice addition to round out the flavours.

6 ripe figs
1 tsp fresh mint
2 ounces yogurt cheese, or plain organic yogurt
Honey (the farmers market in Creemore offers many local honeys like clover and wildflower)

Wipe down the figs with a damp cloth to remove dust. Pare away the stems. Cut the fig into quarters but keep the base attached so the end result resembles a budding flower when you take the bottom and squeeze it. Spoon the yogurt cheese into the splayed areas, sprinkle with mint, and drizzle with the honey.

Figs are ALSO delish cut in half, drizzled in a bit of maple syrup and grilled in the oven. While they're still warm spoon some mascarpone cheese on top.

You say Tomahto, I say Tomayto

This lazy image of July was sent to me by a very good friend who loves food too!

I only eat tomatoes raw in the summer. It's the only time their flesh tastes sweet and ready for eating. Do NOT refrigerate these glorious veggies. The cold dulls the flavour and completely ruins everything good about a ripe sweet summer tomato from the garden. There's really no reason you can't just eat the whole damn thing anyway with a bit of salt and pepper!

Here's a rambling bit of history on the plummy ol' tomato (with a boozy recipe at the end):

At the midpoint of summer, the tomato is one of those foods you can pull off the vine and start eating. It is like a ballooned berry – rich in colour, delicate in the subtlety from one fruit to another, and sweet in contemplative flavour. A native of the area around the Peru-Ecuador-Bolivian border (its name is derived from the Mayan word, ‘xtomatl’), the tomato was first cultivated by the Incas and the Aztecs in the 8th century. It was then shipped across the sea to Europe by the 16th century Spanish conquistadors.

The tomato is a member of the nightshade family and it was rumoured to be poisonous throughout the Old World. The Italians were the first to realize the transporting effect the tomato had on their own regional flavours: garlic, onions and olive oil. The tomato can also be found in many North African dishes and Asian foods (India in particular). Today Americans eat about 12 million tons of tomatoes per year but it wasn’t until the early 1900s that the tomato became a ubiquitous part of the North American food culture used on sandwiches as a garnish, in salads, pureed as a paste, cooked down for pasta sauces and canned in the form of a relish.

The tomato is the product of a scrawny ground hugging plant that can be grown by both neophyte and expert gardeners alike. They require little care and a lot of natural sunlight (6 – 12 hours a day). If you do not have a garden patch to call your own place a tomato plant in a large container, stake it and place it on a roof top patio, back deck, or fire escape. It’ll do just fine. If you have a larger garden, raise the plants above ground and hoist onto a stake or cage because they will be less prone to contract soil borne diseases and they will inevitably produce more fruit. If your plants are prone to pests, grow marigolds between the rows of tomato plants and their strong scent will drive off unwanted critters while attracting pollinators such as bees.

Back in 1887 the tomato had its day in the Supreme Court. Is the tomato a fruit or a vegetable? Although they were officially labeled a vegetable when the gavel came down the decision was more a matter of tariffs and taxes than a scientific solution. Botanists believe the tomato is a fruit because it is a seed from a plant and it is covered and contained in juicy, pulpy products whereas horticulturists claim the tomato as a vegetable because it is an annual and non-woody vine. So, as usual, the answer depends on whom you ask.

There are thousands of varieties of tomatoes and hundreds of which are cultivated. Some of the most common are: Beefsteak (large, heavy globes with a meaty dense interior perfect for sandwiches), Cherry (the small tangy tomato with a sweet flavour, wonderful in salads and roasted in the oven with olive oil and rosemary), Roma (used in canning and making tomato sauces or soups) and the yellow pear (sweet, tangy and very pretty).

Tomato Vodka Soup

Serve chilled, serves 4

1 lb. Roma tomatoes (about 5 or 6)
2 celery stalks
3 green onions
½ seeded, peeled cucumber, diced
1 jalapeno pepper, seeded
½ cup vodka
2 Tbsp fresh lemon juice
1 ½ cups tomato juice
1 Tbsp grated horseradish
1 avocado
salt and pepper

Drop the tomatoes into boiling water for 1 minute. Drain and pull off the skins. Chop the tomatoes, the celery, green onion and jalapeno pepper. Toss into a blender and pulse until combined. Add the vodka and lemon juice and pulse again. Pour into a large bowl and add the horseradish and the tomato juice. Stir to combine. Toss in the finely diced cucumber. Season with salt and freshly ground pepper. Chill. Dice an avocado and ladle into the center of the bowl just before serving. Sprinkle with tarragon if it’s handy.

For the love of chocolate!

From cocoa bean to a delicious (not to mention addictive and a little bit aphrodisiacal!) confection, the tale of chocolate through the ages.

Montezuma supposedly drank 50 cups of it, Casanova reportedly tossed back a shot of it before each of his amorous encounters and the Marquis de Sade threw hedonistic parties where he laced it with a potent Spanish fly. The magic love potion was none other than the infamous aphrodisiac known as chocolate.

Chocolate has historically always been part of ceremony and celebration. In 250 AD the Mayans paid homage to their gods by dripping blood over burnt cacao seeds and creating an altar of sacrifice. Cacao drinks were included at marriage festivities as a symbol of love and devotion (hence the idea behind giving chocolate on Valentine’s Day). The Aztecs mixed achiote, a red powder made from the seed of the annatto tree, into their chocolate drinks symbolically representing human sacrifice to the gods. In Mexico today, during the Dia de los Muertos (the Day of the Dead), families cover altars with food, flowers and a symbolic dish of cacao seeds, mole, or hot chocolate as sacred offerings to their beloved visiting spirits.

Cocoa, from which chocolate is created, is said to have originated in the Amazon in 2,000 BC. Chocolate is derived from the seed of the cocoa tree (the pods) and has a bitter quality. It became the basis for a thick, cold, unsweetened drink blended with various spices and hot chili peppers called xocoatl.

Coumbus introduced cocoa beans to Europe but their potential remained unknown until the arrival of Hernando Cortez in America in 1513 who used cocoa beans as a bartering tool: a slave cost 100 cocoa beans, a prostitute cost 10, and a rabbit cost 4. It was Cortez who, inspired to make the Aztec bitter beverage more drinkable, thought to blend the cocoa beans with sugar, vanilla, nutmeg, and cinnamon.

By 1585 shipments of cocoa beans were crossing the Atlantic bound for Spain. The Spaniards prepared a cup of chocolate in this formula: a hundred cocoa beans mixed with two pods of chili or Mexican pepper (or failing those, Indian peppercorns or a handful of aniseed or two of those small flowers known as “little ears”), six roses of Alexandria, a little pod of logwood, two drachmas of cinnamon, a dozen almonds and as many hazelnuts, half a pound of sugar, and enough arnotto to give it deep colour. Spain managed to keep the secret of the chocolate beverage from the rest of Europe for 100 years. From Spain, chocolate took to the French courts, the London Coffee Houses, the German markets and the Brazilian production houses.

On February 14, 273 A.D., the Roman Emperor Claudius II beheaded a priest named Valentine for performing marriage ceremonies in secret for young soldiers who had sworn to celibacy. Legend has it that while in prison St. Valentine sent a letter to the jailer’s daughter with whom he was in love and signed it “from, your valentine”.